


Might I But Moor Tonight In Thee

by tackytiger



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Kid Fic, M/M, Mpreg, Soft Draco Malfoy, well sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2020-02-09 11:14:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18637018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tackytiger/pseuds/tackytiger
Summary: Harry needed to learn to love properly, and to let himself be loved in return.Or: the most domestic of Drarries! Kids, cats, and cuddles.





	Might I But Moor Tonight In Thee

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Erin_Riwen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erin_Riwen/gifts).



> A tiny bit of fluff, written especially for someone I don't know but who sounds like a great person and an asset to this fandom. I believe she likes fluffy, domestic, family fics so I've chucked them all at her in this one! 
> 
> It's my first fluffy piece (I'm normally into a bit of misery and pining with a side of slow burn) so I hope it is fluffy enough!

He had to learn to love properly, and to let himself be loved back. You were happy to help him with that. You started years ago, and you've made it your life's work.

You began by teaching him to let you push him up against the wall and use your mouth to map a path out on his throat as he swallowed.

It got easier from there - you learned each other's bodies first, and then you learned each other's hearts. 

You've had years of teaching him, now. Years of learning how to argue without it coming to wands and leaving you both close to tears and choking on words you didn't know how to say yet. Years of learning how to tolerate each other's friends (and how to be polite to the ones you still hate, even now). Years of pushing each other away and pulling each other back until you learned what ease there is in gentleness. 

He still fears that he's too warped from his childhood to love properly. The love of his parents became both a weapon and a shield, after all. Harry himself was shaped for war, and he worries that hope cannot bloom out of a battle-blasted landscape.

You spend years proving him wrong. You press against him, shoulder to shoulder, when he cries at too many gravesides on too many anniversaries. You fill a photo album with snaps of every one of Teddy's firsts, and let Harry see how he is at Teddy's side for all of them. You laugh out loud for pure joy when you tell him that you're pregnant (“Malfoy - how? It's a miracle!” “We're wizards, Potter. It's just magic.”). You revel in the tenderness of the skate of his lips over your swollen abdomen, and in the reverent hush of his in-breath when he feels the press of his child against your skin for the first time.

Every day, you remind him of the bravery of love. After everything that happened to him - all the machinations and plots and accidents of fate that buffetted him from babyhood to manhood - you remind him every day that you chose each other. There are no higher forces at work, no prophecies or soulbonds or predestinies. 

Instead, there's just the two of you working hard every day to understand each other, and to honour the choice you made when you promised ‘til death do you part.

You’re late getting in, but it allows you to stand beside your bed and just look for a minute. He's deep in sleep, kissed and gilded by moonlight. The bed seems overfull - Harry is curled like a question mark around Teddy and James (who both definitely started the night in their own room). There's a shapeless lump of cat wedged firmly in the space behind Harry's knees, and the room is warm with the hum of her sleeping purr.

There isn't really room for you, but you lift the duvet anyway and, like always, Harry shifts in his sleep and reels you in until you have him locked against you. You press your face into the softest part of him, the velvety warmth where the back of his neck leads into the curve of his shoulder. In the halflight, you can feel rather than see him smiling. 

It's always goodnight.


End file.
